


Scribblings

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:29:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>plot. what plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scribblings

**Author's Note:**

> Mind wipe? What mind wipe?

After she clipped her nails too short, too close to a red-raw bed, Amelia threw out the beer in her fridge, dumped them into a white plastic bag laced with red ribbon and tossed it to the curb, fragile glass bottles slamming against hard concrete until the bag bled into the grass and down into the gutter until it was found by neighborhood pets and someone complained that their cat had lapped it up and thunked its hard skull into their sliding glass door.

The place next door to the Novaks was still for sale, and Amelia wanted to take the rototiller in the shed, drag it out under one of the nights thick and cloying with fog, churn up that weed-clumped lawn, and sow it with salt.

She told this to Claire, eyes on the morning’s french toast, fingers curled into a half fist around a jar of pure maple syrup, drizzling it in cross-hatched circles until the bread drowned in stickiness and sugar, just like Jimmy used to like it.

“Let’s do it,” Claire said, but she left the plate half full of toast and syrup and Amelia, spraying it with water from the scummed up faucet, wondered if Claire muttered under an eye roll and a breath if Amelia even knew her at all, and Amelia squeezed her eyes shut because every mom would want to say that yeah of course she knew her she gave birth to her didn’t she, they got on didn’t they—no fights, no teenage rebellion in a teenage wasteland—and Claire had never shoved her fists on her hips and stamped her feet spitting no between her teeth and maybe that—and Amelia scrubbed the plate with a green-backed yellow sponge until the muscles in her shoulders and neck seized into cramps the shape of golf balls—that was the problem.

Amelia couldn’t be sure until, bundled up in winter coats and scarfs wound tight around their necks, that they had just said they were going to do this thing for the hell of it, sowing salt in their neighbor’s yard when just last week Amelia had choked off her neighbor’s airway with her elbows and her hands and the week before that they had all clustered around the barbeque, toasting marshmallows or making tacky torches by thrusting them deep into the coals until they burned to crispy cinders, Claire daring them to go on and just eat it, lips curled into a smile like right now, only now it was bitten with a cold frost as they crunched grass under their boots, dying blades splintering under the weight of their bodies and their shoulders and their souls.

The rototiller shook under her hands, and Claire said Can I try but Amelia said, “No” as she throttled the handle bucking from the engine with her fingers, as she wrestled with it over the lawn, just glimpsing Claire’s frown in the wavering, stuttering beam of the flashlight with the ill-fitting battery they always had to shake so that the light would stop shuddering off and on.

Claire poured salt behind her and Amelia kept wondering if it would burn through the soles of her boots but it didn’t because it was just salt and she was just flesh and bone with not even a film of sulphur over her skin because she drew baths of scalding holy water, had just drawn one before this midnight adventure, while Claire just showered like she always did, same routine except her eyes were different, like Amelia’s eyes were different, but still not in the same way.

Not that they looked each other in the eyes anymore, so Amelia jerked the rototiller, pulled her arm wrong until the muscle twinged, and Claire paused behind her, salt still falling from her fingertips, shouting, “You okay, Mom!”

And over the roar of the rototiller Amelia just said yeah, fine and struggled on, tearing up the lawn behind her like the prowling lion in the book of Job.

At night, Amelia slept in their queen sized bed with white cotton sheets and a store bought comforter that was too bright and hard with a pastel pattern, but dammit it was cold outside and inside and she figured she really ought to put some socks on, but the floor was too cold for bare feet marbled blue. So she lifted up the hem of her shirt, slipped her hand under the waist of Jimmy’s flannel plaid pajama bottoms, under the elastic of her underwear, and passed her fingertips over and around the nub of her clit, like the way Jimmy used to do to her with his tongue, but not like it because the angle was all wrong and a finger pad too rough and dry and calloused, and it just wasn’t the same even though the thread of warmth along her spine strung itself a little tighter and the muscles in her thighs pulled her legs up against the sheets and hot sweat made her shirt sweaty against the small of her back—but she pulled her hand away just before she pushed her body into that orgasm reflex because her muscles were shaking around her fingers and she couldn’t help pushing against the bed with her shoulders and there were noises coming from her mouth she never meant to make and god.

She decided to move because she was tired of looking at that for sale sign. “But Mom,” Claire said, and they accidentally looked each other in the eyes, and her eyes were over bright and over clear, and Amelia was so sure Claire saw beneath her skin that she turned her back, gripped the sink with her nails trimmed too close to their beds so that the pressure made her fingertips ache and sting.

But then Claire was right there, and she didn’t touch Amelia, but her voice was loud and brazen like Gabriel’s trumpet as she said, “How will Dad ever find his way home if we move?”

“Theologically speaking,” Amelia said even though she didn’t even know what the fuck that meant anymore, if any of it was true, “god is omnipotent. He’ll know.” She didn’t say that the divine entities probably already knew that they would move, that she (or they?) had already made this decision and that the lines in her palms, the wrinkles from smiling and frowning were just a roadmap, and she was just packing up her bags, running her feet and hands into the ground following it, but she swallowed it down because it tasted gross in her mouth, and Claire would just stomp off to the beat of free will.

So they moved and Amelia got a new job and Claire went to a new school and never came home on time, except when Amelia told her they were getting anti-demon possession tattoos. In the car, Amelia said, eyes fixed on the windshield but not on the cars, “Too bad I couldn’t find one for anti-angelic possession, huh?” Claire didn’t say anything, but Amelia saw, in the rear view mirror reflection, the way her lips twitched tight and snug against her teeth and Amelia put the gas pedal down a little too hard as they sped down the highway.

Amelia stopped waiting for Claire to come home because she was a big girl now, and if she wanted to hunt angels and find Jimmy who had already said yes so what more was there to say—then good for her, that was her prerogative. She enrolled in a yoga class after work, almost choked on her heart when she saw the instructor practicing in the spare minutes before the session began, the way her legs dipped and stretched, arms pulling her rib cage open so that she could breathe free, the thin straps of her tank top twisting around her shoulder blades, revealing an anti-demon possession tattoo.

It pulled Amelia, and when she was close, too close for strangers, Lisa stopped, voice a little airy and lungs a little breathless with some pleasantry or other, but Amelia just pulled down the waist of her yoga pants, revealing her own tattoo in the hollow of her hip and Lisa stopped talking, her eyes big and they were like Amelia’s eyes but for some reason they didn’t look away, not even when other people drifted in, rolled out their mats, lined up in simple formation in front of the mirror.

When it was over, when Amelia wiped away the sweat with a damp paper towel in the locker room, Lisa came in, stripped out of her tank-top, leaned over the sink, and splashed water on her face as Amelia said, “Can I touch?” and Lisa said yes, so she traced the mark with her fingertips, with soft exhalations of her breath as she breathed the sweet smell of the sweat that silked Lisa’s skin.

“Can I?” Lisa said, and Amelia nodded, let Lisa pull the waist down, let Lisa put her hand on the slope of her other hip as her thumb traced the sensitive skin there, until they were flushed and hot against each other, their cunts rubbing tight circles against each other. Lisa was loud, murmuring broken vowels and shards of consonants, so Amelia pressed a palm against her mouth as Lisa came, shuddering against Amelia, pushing her against the wall and using her fingers and her hips to coax Amelia to come too, even though it was useless, even though Amelia hadn’t been able to reflex into an orgasm since before the tattoo. It wasn’t until Lisa licked her palm, smile and laughter sneaking around the edges of her skin, that Amelia jerked back, surprised, came in the middle of asking Lisa, “What are you, twelve?”

And Lisa, pulling up Amelia’s pants even though the muscles in her abdomen were still shaking and shivering, laced up the strings sewn in the waist into a bow at the front, whispered, “Obviously not.”


End file.
